


Cover Me Up

by sequential



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Choking, Crying, M/M, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-11-29 14:40:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11442981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequential/pseuds/sequential
Summary: Stan travels to Gravity Falls and finds Ford in a sorry state.





	Cover Me Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fingalsanteater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fingalsanteater/gifts).



When Stan stirs in the morning, it’s to an oppressive weight on his chest. Warning bells ring in his head, and he’s about to leap up when the familiar mop of brown hair registers. 

It’s Ford, looking somehow more disheveled than yesterday. He’d been wild-eyed then, waving his crossbow and looking ready to fire at any sudden movements. Now, his eye bags are no better, but his eyes themselves seem duller. Stan wonders how long he’s been awake, here, when he’d squeezed in with Stan on the tiny living room couch. His breathing is shallow and labored, and it takes him a moment to notice that Stan is awake. 

“Mornin’,” Stan says, reaching out a hand. At the last second, he decides against running fingers through Ford’s hair, and settles for an awkward pat on the head.

“Stan,” Ford just says, and then he shifts, and Stan can feel Ford’s hardness pressing against his thigh. Okay then.

“Uh, look, Ford, I’m happy to see you too, but—“ 

“Shut up,” Ford snaps, sitting up, and the suddenness of it does make Stan fall silent. His teeth clench, and he’s about to let Ford have it when Ford just… deflates again, slumping against Stan’s chest.

“Just listen for a moment. I—I accidentally swapped some of my containers and consumed something with a strange effect last night, okay? I’m feeling a bit… a bit out of sorts.”

“...What, you swapped your crazy pills for some kinda sex drug?” Stan asks. He doesn’t know what to make of this Ford. The hostility from the day before is expected now, but he feels uneasy about the way Ford is pressed against him, a sick perversion of their prior closeness.

“Aphrodisiac, Stanley,” Ford says, as if Stan doesn’t know the word. Stan kind of wants to punch him, but Ford also looks so pathetic that he can’t muster up the will. He’s still acutely aware of the warmth of Ford's cock, even through layers of fabric, hot against his thigh.

When Stan opens his mouth to say something, Ford gives him a tired glare that is enough to cut him off. “Just… just let me have this.”

He drops his head onto Stan’s chest, and his fingers curl into the blankets, and Stan decides to let him be.

 

He might actually have dozed off for a bit after that, though if he had it’d been a hot, fevered half-sleep at best. When he blinks his eyes open again, it’s because Ford is making these soft, desperate noises, and discreetly grinding against Stan’s leg through the layers of blankets. 

“This is getting kinda creepy, Sixer,” he says, and Ford’s eyes snap to his at that. He grits his teeth in irritation, then, and forces himself to stop moving. The effort seems to take a lot out of him.

“I… need your help with something, Stan,” he says, reluctantly. 

“What, you mean you didn’t call me all the way out here just to rub off against me?” Stan asks with a nervous chuckle. Ford’s face remains as tightly shut as ever. 

“Not that,” he says curtly. “I’ll tell you what you’re here for later, but right now I need you to jerk me off.”

He says the last part so evenly Stan thinks he must have heard it wrong. “You need me to _what_?” 

Apparently Ford is not completely immune to the ridiculousness of his request, because the color begins to rise in his cheeks, particularly noticeable against the sickly pallor of the rest of his skin. “I’m not repeating myself, Stanley,” he says. He sounds more winded than before.

“… Okay, okay,” Stan says, more to calm himself than Ford. Then, hopefully, “You can’t just get yourself off? Or wait it out?” He tries to draw his knees back toward himself, but Ford’s solid weight pins him in place.

“If I could have taken care of it myself, it would be taken care of already.” Stan feels a twinge of annoyance at that, though he can’t fathom why. He should be glad that Ford would rather take care of his own boners. 

“…You realize that incest is still illegal in most states, right?" he asks, in a poor attempt to lighten the mood, or perhaps just let Ford down easy. So Ford’s taken some kinda drug that makes him extra horny. He isn’t really expecting Stan to be pathetic enough to—

“So is manslaughter,” Ford says. 

The apparent non sequitur throws Stan off. “What does that have to—"

“The aphrodisiac I ingested uses extremely potent materials, which tend to cause increasing discomfort, and, if not dealt with within a day, may be potentially lethal.” 

When Stan continues to stare at him, dumbfounded, Ford continues, “In other words, if you don’t want me to die, you need to help me come.”

“I got that the first time!” Stan says, though his mind is still wrapping slowly around it. “Why the fuck do you even have something like that?”

“It’s for breeding animals,” Ford says distractedly, and then, belatedly, blushes.

“…Ha. Haha,” Stan says, uneasily, still waiting for his mind to catch up to him.

Ford just looks at him like he’s an idiot, but before he can say anything disparaging he seems to be hit by a bout of pain. He doubles over with a sudden groan, fists clenching in Stan’s shirt as if to steady himself. It isn’t working—Stan can clearly see him trembling with tension.

“Woah, woah! Okay, you’re not kidding about this,” Stan says, resting his hands uncertainly on Ford’s back. When that doesn’t help, he runs them up and down Ford’s sides in a motion he hopes is soothing, until Ford stills beneath his palms. 

When he looks up again, his eyes are narrowed against the remnants of pain. This time, Stan does smooth a hand through Ford’s hair, which elicits a small gasp of breath and Ford tilting his head into the touch. Stan makes a decision then, and slowly begins to maneuver Ford off of him. This draws a frantic noise of protest, Ford actually trying to cling to him, until Stan reverses their positions so that Ford is on his back, Stan half on top of him.

“…Alright.” he says.

“Alright?” Ford is panting, face flushed now with the embarrassment of his earlier panic, though he keeps a firm grip on Stan’s arm as if he’s still afraid he’ll change his mind.

“Alright, I’ll help get you off,” Stan concedes. 

 

“Hurry,” Ford says, with a desperate edge to his voice. It’s neither a _please_ nor a _thank you_ , but Stan can let that go for now. 

Stan takes a breath, trying to steady himself, but apparently he’s taking too long for Ford. His grip has slipped down to Stan’s wrist, and he holds on so tight it almost hurts as he firmly places Stan’s hand over his clothed cock.

Stan feel the outline of it through the fabric, pressed tight as if it’s trying to break free. Saliva gathers in his mouth too quickly, and he has to swallow loudly to keep himself from drooling embarrassingly in front of Ford. Just a handjob. He can do that.

He slowly thumbs the elevated ridge, garnering moans from Ford at even that small point of contact. Carefully, he presses the flat of his palm against the outline of Ford’s cock, and rubs against it in small circles. 

There’s a wet spot over the tip, and Stan realizes with a jolt that Ford probably isn’t wearing anything under his slacks. When he stills his hand for a moment to process this, Ford continues to thrust up against Stan’s palm, as if Stan is merely a tool for him to get himself off with. No, there really isn’t any “as if” to that. 

Stan can’t pretend he’s just a neutral party to this, though, as he realizes with a swell of guilt that he’s starting to get hard himself. There’s no way Ford would have noticed, with the way Stan’s bent over him, but he can’t help feeling, as Ford fixes him with his gaze, that he must know. 

Instead, Ford’s face clenches up with annoyance, and he says, with a voice that’s half plea and half demand, “Just… take it out, Stanley. I don’t,” he closes his eyes and swallows back a moan as Stan applies more pressure over his cock, “I don’t have time for your teasing.”

“You sure do know how to sweet talk a guy,” Stan mutters. Just the sound of Ford’s voice, breathy and desperate, is starting to do it for him though. Ford could probably recite some nerdy geek equations at him sounding like this, and he’d be so sick and pathetic he’d still be into it. Ford could tell him he’s worthless, that this is all he’s good for, and—

“Please,” Ford says. It sends a pulse of heat straight to Stan’s cock.

“Okay, okay,” he says, casually, and then deftly unbuttons Ford’s pants. He lets out a slow breath that makes Ford shiver as it skitters across his skin, and then pulls down the zipper. Stan pulls on the slacks, and Ford lifts his hips to help him get them down. The slow slide of fabric gradually revealing flushed skin underneath is too much, and Stan gives up on being careful and just tugs them off, throwing them to the side. 

Ford’s cock is red and angry, already leaking precome from the tip. Stan swallows again, and then risks dashing his eyes up to Ford’s face to see how he’s faring.

Ford’s clenched his eyes—against pain or arousal or embarrassment, it’s hard to tell—and though he’s biting down hard against his bottom lip, Stan can definitely hear his reluctant whimpers. 

Feeling as if he’s seeing something he shouldn’t, he turns his eyes back down to Ford’s cock. He’s jerked himself off enough times and, sure, helped another guy out here and there, so. It should be easy, right? He tells himself so as he wraps his fingers loosely around Ford’s cock. Just the slightest contact and Ford is already thrusting up, trying to get more. 

“Stan, please,” he says, and Stan obligingly tightens his grip, pumping Ford’s cock with smooth motions that have Ford moaning aloud. 

Ford’s cock feels so hot in his hand, almost pulsing with need. He doesn’t even need to use lube, with it weeping enough precome already to lubricate the glide. His own dick seems to throb in sympathy at the sight, but he stubbornly ignores it and focuses on Ford’s pleasure. This isn’t about him.

Still pumping Ford’s cock steadily, he uses the thumb of his other hand to rub carefully against Ford’s swollen balls. Ford’s fingers clench tight into the fabric of the couch, and he swears up a storm. Stan takes this as a good enough sign to take them into his hands, rolling them gently, and Ford is truly moaning well and good now. 

The sound seems to ring in his ears, and Stan keeps his eyes focused on his work, not trusting himself to look at Ford’s face right now. His own face feels like it’s burning red with shame and arousal, though, god, he hasn’t even been touched.

With the way Ford looks, Stan expects this to be a quick exercise. Jerk off his brother for a minute or so, wipe his hands, and be done with it. It doesn’t quite work out like that. Gradually, Ford’s noises go from moans of approval to growls of annoyance. Stan continues jerking him, occasionally spitting on his hand to slick the way. The wet sounds of his palm against Ford’s cock are obscene, and Ford’s cock is jutting up against his belly, looking ready to burst, but Ford himself is starting to curse angrily under his breath.

“Are you even _trying_?” Ford asks after a while, sounding frustrated. 

He knows he should have more sympathy for Ford, but those words make something flare up in him. “Of course I’m fucking trying! It’s not my fault you got yourself into this mess, Stanford,” he says, with a particularly hard tug on Ford’s cock that must be teetering on the edge of painful. 

That makes Ford’s eyes fall shut for a moment, as he lets out a low groan, pain or pleasure or something else, but when he recovers, he’s still panting and angry.

“My _life_ is on the line and you can’t even get one handjob right,” he spits, finally batting Stan’s hand away.

“Oh yeah, and I’m sure _you’re_ an expert when it comes to sex,” Stan counters back. He feels like a child, unable to stop himself from fighting back, but then Ford grabs hold of his hair and tugs.

Stan yelps in pain, and it momentarily distracts him before he realizes that Ford is tugging his face toward Ford’s cock. Holy shit. “Just use your mouth,” Ford says, and Stan starts trying to scramble back.

“What the fuck—“ he starts, but despite his weakened appearance Ford manages to pull him forward so that Stan’s mouth bumps against his swollen cock. He presses his mouth shut in a firm line even as Ford’s cock slides clumsily against his cheek, leaving a wet line. 

“Ford, stop,” he manages, finally wresting himself free and scrambling off the couch, falling backwards onto the floor. Ford stares at him, his eyes cold, before he leaps after him. They scrabble on the floor, Stan trying to grapple Ford into control without hurting him, thought it seems Ford has no similar concern. 

Finally, Ford manages to pin him with a hand over his throat, and Stan feels himself start to go limp in resignation—when Ford is once again seized by a sudden bout of pain. His grip loosens, and his eyes shut, and Stan’s not above using this to turn them around and slam Ford onto the floor. He presses down with an elbow on the back of Ford’s neck, and folds his wrists behind his back.

Ford moans. It’s not a moan of pain.

And then, before Stan can even react, Ford begins, slowly, to laugh. 

“Of course,” he mutters to himself. “You couldn't have had it any other way, could you? As if this wasn’t embarrassing enough, now _Stan_ —“ The name makes him focus again, and his eyes slowly drift from a point in the distance to Stan’s face. He looks defeated.

“Stan,” he says, the resistance in his body slipping away. It’s replaced with a slight shivering as Ford seems to try to push back the pain, and, yeah, he seems to be squirming for some pressure on his cock. It feels strange to hold him down like this, but Stan doesn’t dare let go just yet. “I need you to fuck me.”

Stan can’t keep up with this. His heart is still pounding loudly in his chest from the adrenaline, and he waits for it to slow to a quick jog before he talks. Ford continues to watch him from where he’s pinned to the ground. “You don’t know what you’re saying, Ford. You need to calm down for a sec—“

“No, I need _you_ ,” Ford interrupts. 

Stan feels himself tense up at those words, waiting for the catch. “…Why?”

“I’d had my suspicions, but I think there’s… something in this potion that won’t allow me to orgasm unless I’m in a submissive position,” Ford says, his voice going quieter, embarrassed.

Stan takes a deep breath. What has he gotten himself into, really? “There really isn’t somebody else you’d rather have help you with this? Some guy or lady in the town? Someone not related to you?” Not that that’s stopped either of them from getting hard, though at least Ford has his aphrodisiac as an excuse.

Ford drops his eyes to the ground. “There’s nobody else I can trust here but you, Stanley.”

…oh. Stan feels like the breath has been knocked out of him. He pulls back the hand on Ford’s neck slowly, and is met with a disappointed sigh from Ford before he eases him onto his back. 

Slowly, he smooths Ford’s hair back, and then he kisses him. Ford doesn’t respond at first, his eyes staring questioningly up at him, and Stan feels immediately regretful. Still, when he bites Ford’s lip sharply and then pushes his tongue inside, Ford begins, slowly, to kiss back.

It really is nice, for a moment, until Ford starts to get impatient again, pulling on Stan’s sleeves as if all he needs is to hold Stan close. When they part for air, though, he is saying, “Fuck me, Stanley. Please, please, hurry,” his face red and shy and at odds with his shameless words. 

A packet of lube is on the floor from where it’d rolled out of Ford’s pants pocket when Stan had tossed it earlier. Stan pours it out on his fingers, not bothering to be careful, and Ford squirms on the floor as some of the overflow drips onto his sensitive skin.

Stan pushes Ford’s knees up, then, and Ford hesitates only a moment before he holds his legs apart for him. His eyes squeeze shut – he must know how he looks. 

Stan doesn’t allow himself to linger on that view – he’s hard enough already to get the job done. Carefully, he presses his fingers to Ford’s entrance, rubbing in small circles around the soft skin there to encourage Ford to relax. Ford peeks an eye open, and before he can complain again Stan fucks the first finger in.

It clearly catches Ford by surprise, and his mouth, open on a word, lets out a pleased noise instead. It’d actually be kind of funny, how easy he shuts up, if Stan weren’t busy with the thought of his finger inside Ford, Ford tight around him. 

As Stan wiggles the finger about a bit, and then starts thrusting in slowly, he’s surprised that Ford is taking it much better than he’d expected. He would’ve thought Ford would be virgin-tight, perhaps needing a moment to adjust to the pain. It’s… it’s the aphrodisiac, probably, isn’t it? 

Then again, Stan doesn’t really know him anymore. He may be nothing like the shy, awkward kid he was in high school, could’ve fucked as many guys as he wanted since then. He’s not sure which part of that thought makes him more sick.

“I’m fine, Stanley, just give it to me now,” Ford is saying, his voice urgent, still squirming at the stimulation. Stan ignores him and inserts another finger, thrusting faster as Ford makes a frustrated noise and starts shifting his hips down to meet him. Stan starts with a third finger but then Ford grabs him by the wrist, stopping his motions. His hips still, too, though it clearly takes some effort. “Just hurry up, there’s no time.”

“You’re going to get hurt,” Stan protests, but Ford just clenches harder on his wrist.

“That’s fine!” he snaps. “You think I can’t take it?”

“That’s not the point, Sixer—“

“Just listen to me,” Ford says. Okay, fine, so Ford wants to get this out of the way as fast as possible. Stan swallows his resentment and pulls his hand free, reaching for the lube again.

Ford watches closely as Stan undoes his fly, and his eyes don’t betray even a flicker of surprise when it’s clear Stan is just as hard as he is. Stan’s not sure if he should be relieved or annoyed about that, but if Ford is doing him the courtesy of not commenting, then he’ll take it. 

He shoves off his pants and boxers down clumsily, as Ford takes himself in hand, already pumping himself as if he can’t wait even this long.

As Stan lubes himself up, Ford uses the fingers on his other hand to fuck himself, far less carefully than Stan had. The sight of his hole clenched around his fingers, Ford fucking himself without abandon, hits him with a wave of arousal.

He tugs Ford’s hand away with perhaps too much force, and Ford cries out in surprise and then pleasure as Stan slides into him.

Stan moans too, helplessly, because Ford is so tight and hot around him, and because it’s _Ford_. Ford, who he’d desperately jerked it to for the first time as a horny teenager, Ford who’d shared a bed with him as a child, Ford who he’d imagined holding down and taking his frustrations on, because everything of everything his life had become.

Ford, who just now has tears welling up in his eyes. The sight snaps Stan to attention, and he panics. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” he asks, starting to pull out.

Ford shakes his head silently, and presses against Stan’s back with a heel, wordlessly telling him not to pull away. Even now, he’s refusing to open up. “Keep going,” he manages, in a voice that wavers only slightly, and Stan doesn’t know what else to do but listen.

He starts fucking Ford in small thrusts at first, that seem to punch small sobs out of him. It’s kind of a boner killer, but then Ford’s sobs reside as he continues, morphing into small moans instead. His cheeks are still wet, and Stan brushes some tears off of his face as he picks up his pace. 

Ford’s wrapped both legs around Stan’s waist now, pulling him close, and he willingly reaches up and pulls Stan down for another kiss. He’s rough with it, uncontrolled as he licks into Stan’s mouth, and then pulls back to bite on Stan’s lip, hard.

“Fuck!” Stan says, and his grip on the back of Ford’s neck goes tight. When he bites back, Ford lets out a moan of pleasure, and he has the distinct feeling he’s been goaded into doing exactly what Ford wants. 

When Stan closes his eyes, he allows himself to imagine a younger Ford, who clings to him because he loves him, because he wants him close. This Ford would tell him what’s wrong, and Stan would protect him from it.

When he opens them again, Ford just looks blissed out. There’s a line of spit running down from the corner of his mouth, and he’s wrapped his fist loosely around his own cock, though he hasn’t seemed to muster up the concentration to actually do much with it. 

Stan knocks it away and wraps his own hand around Ford’s cock. Ford seems to come back into focus and eyes Stan with a tired look, before he shuts them again as Stan pumps in time with his thrusts.

“Stanley,” he says, “Please, I’m so close,” and he trembles underneath him, tight as a string, but does not come. 

Stan remembers Ford caught under him, moaning, and reaches suddenly for his throat. He barely squeezes before Ford comes with a shout. Then, he slumps down limply.

 

For a moment, Stan freaks out. Holy shit, did Ford- did Ford die? But then his chest rises, and falls, slowly, and the tension eases out of his face in a natural way. He’s... asleep. His dick slowly goes flaccid, and his burning body seems to slowly return to a normal temperature. Stan’s mind, recovered from the panic, gradually re-settles on the fact of his cock inside his brother. It feels extra dirty now, with Ford unconscious, like he’s been taking advantage. No, he _has_ been taking advantage. Guiltily, he starts to ease himself out—

And then Ford's eyes fly open. 

Stan stops moving, like he’s been caught in some crime. That’s ridiculous, and yet Ford continues to stare at him for an uncomfortably long time. Oh god, what if he hates him now? No, of course Ford hates him, after what he—

“Stan,” Ford says. Then, he cracks into a wide smile. He loops his arms around Stan’s neck, and pulls him down. It’s so sudden that Stan nearly falls over onto him. As it is, they bump noses clumsily before Ford kisses him. It’s… really nice, actually, slow and loving and nothing like before. It makes Stan’s dick twitch inside of him. 

Stan freezes. 

“You wanted this, didn’t you?” Ford says as he pulls back, his pupils appearing to grow eerily thin. “You were glad to see F—to see me broken down and desperate, because that meant I would _need you_ again.” Stan can’t help but suck in a sharp breath at those words, and Ford laughs knowingly.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Ford says, cupping his face almost tenderly, "You did it, you took care of me.” He looks so at ease, so unlike the jumpy, timid creature he’d been, it makes Stan’s heart twist up.

“Ford—“ 

“Let’s make sure you’re taken care of too, buddy,” Ford says, and the phrasing is so off that Stan wants to jerk back, but then Ford surges up to kiss him again, and he moans so sweetly and God, okay, yeah. So maybe Ford picked up some new words in college. He’s also learned how to kiss like a pro, apparently, so some new vocab shouldn’t be too big a surprise.

Ford does take care of him then, pushing him onto his back and riding his cock with enthusiastic fervor. It’s embarrassing how quickly Stan comes after that, an image seared into his mind of Ford bouncing on his dick, one hand smearing his own come into his skin. 

After, Ford rests half on top of Stan, while Stan resolutely does not think of the come— _his_ come, dripping down Ford’s thighs. Ford doesn’t seem bothered by it. He just nuzzles into Stan’s neck, seemingly pleased.

“I knew I could trust you, Stanley,” he says, against Stan’s neck. The puff of cold air raises goosebumps on his skin.


End file.
